


Stop-outs

by hollybennett123



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Car Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Toys, light-hearted nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:58:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123
Summary: The problem with these risqué outdoor liaisons is that it’s all too easy to lose track of time.





	Stop-outs

**Author's Note:**

> Just a daft thing that popped into my head shortly after writing my previous fic in which I briefly mentioned sex in/on/near the Bentley. It wouldn't leave me alone until I jotted it down, so here you go.

For as long as he can remember Aziraphale has enjoyed spending time outdoors, and on this particular evening there’s much to appreciate: the crisp, bracing autumn air for one, and the delicate scent of wildflowers. The dappled pink of the sky as dusk closes in, and the twinkling headlights flitting by in the distance beyond the trees keeping them hidden from the rest of the world.

The gleaming metal of the Bentley under Aziraphale’s hands where he’s bent over it is also rather splendid. The heat of Crowley’s breath against his neck and the insistent shove of his hips very much appreciated too.

The problem with these risqué outdoor liaisons, however, is that it’s all too easy to lose track of time. It’s all perfectly _thrilling_ as per usual, a decadent treat and a half, until the sleeve of Crowley’s jacket works its way up his wrist a fraction to expose the face of his wristwatch.

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale says dazedly, catching a glimpse of it through his lust-haze.

Crowley slides forward to an abrupt stop at the unexpected exclamation, the momentum nearly sending them both sprawling face-first over the bonnet. “What?”

He’s so wonderfully, inconceivably deep inside him that it takes Aziraphale a moment to recover his train of thought, blinking back into focus.

“Oh, no, you’re quite alright,” Aziraphale says breathlessly, reaching behind himself to give Crowley a reassuring little pat on the thigh. “But you really _must_ get a wiggle on, dearest, or we’ll be frightfully late.”

Perhaps not the best choice of phrase to employ, he realises belatedly on this and every other occasion he’s used it, given Crowley first wiggled into his human-shaped form some six thousand years prior and hasn’t stopped wiggling about the place since. They haven’t the time to question semantics and synonyms, though, when they’re already behind schedule for the seven-thirty showing of Les Mis and there’s only so fast Crowley can drive through the heaving streets of central London without causing a major incident.

“Get a  _—_ this was _your idea_ ,” Crowley says incredulously, giving a faltering thrust before picking up the pace again. “I can’t come on demand, you know.”

“I didn’t say you could,” Aziraphale reminds him tartly, then feels a bit mean about it since Crowley is ever so lovely and trying his best. “You’re doing a tip-top job, this all feels absolutely wonderful. I’m simply saying up the old speed a bit and we’ll get to where we need to be, darling.”

“You’re _ridiculous_ ,” Crowley mutters, as fond as he is exasperated, though he duly shoves Aziraphale down, holds him there with a hand on his back and picks up the pace very nicely indeed.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale groans, his face warm where he’s panting against the car. “Oh, that’s just _marvellous_. Just like that, dear, that’s the ticket.”

He fumbles to get a hand on himself just as Crowley reaches to do the same, their combined grip stroking clumsily over the length of his cock only twice before he’s tipped over the edge with a whimper. He comes mostly onto the ground and only a _tiny_ bit onto the car, which is more than the requested _no_ come on the car Crowley had held him to on the drive over, but a jolly good try nonetheless, all things considered.

Something about it sends Crowley into quite the tizzy behind him, whereupon he hisses some unintelligible combination of both _angel_ and _Aziraphale_ , grabs a fistful of Aziraphale’s rucked-up coat, fucks into him with renewed vigour and comes shortly afterward. Stays there for a good few seconds once he’s done, mouth pressed to Aziraphale’s neck, before reluctantly parting.

“Could you, dearest?” Aziraphale says, still leaning over the Bentley and catching his breath.

Zipping himself back into his trousers, Crowley gives a little hum of agreement and presses up behind him again, close enough that Aziraphale can feel the twist of his wrist as he conjures a plug of whatever design he thinks might suit them well tonight out of thin air. Something sleek and metal and in line with Crowley’s general tastes, Aziraphale assumes, knowing without looking that it will be absolutely perfect no matter what Crowley has chosen.

The tip of it is smooth and startlingly cold when Crowley presses it up against him, making Aziraphale shiver. It goes in so very easily where he’s fucked deliciously wet and open, and _oh_ , it feels simply divine as it settles into place.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says primly, pushing himself upright as Crowley steps away, righting his clothing as Crowley does the same.

On straightening fully to neaten his bowtie, the plug shifts inside him, making his breath catch. There’s a curve to it he’ll find impossible to ignore when they take their seats inside the theatre, even the smallest movement bound to be exquisite torment.

“Oh, you are _wicked_ ,” he tells Crowley, delighted at the fact.

Crowley has a quietly-pleased sort of look about him that Aziraphale simply adores. Since Crowley’s favourite things in the universe include amongst them both Aziraphale and getting up to mischief, the opportunity to combine the two always leaves him in an agreeable mood.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks, looking down at himself and holding his arms outstretched to check for any bothersome marks or untoward stains.

“Not a smudge,” Crowley says, impressed, moving around him in a leisurely circle of inspection. “Not a hair out of place.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says, tugging him in by the wrist to stand before him.

Knowing full well they need to get a move on but far too orgasm-drunk to actually do anything about it, he runs both hands down the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, as much because it feels nice as to make him neat and tidy. Crowley’s hair straddles a fine line between artfully tousled and post-shag dishevelled, so Aziraphale runs his fingers through it a couple more times to tip the balance towards the latter. Just a tad. So people might look at them both and _wonder_.

“Get in the car, angel,” Crowley says, taking Aziraphale by the chin and giving him the briefest yet loveliest of kisses. “And no complaining about my driving.”

“No complaints,” Aziraphale agrees, tamping down a rather hopelessly besotted smile that threatens to break forth. “Not a single one.”

He’ll hold Crowley’s hand later, he thinks: between the theatre seats, their eyes on the stage and their fingers entwined between them. The sky is pink, their breath mists the air, and it’s shaping up to be a very fine evening indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> They do in fact get there on time and they very definitely hold hands throughout, just fyi


End file.
